July 1994 27th
breakfast, here in the Valley of the Gods, is a couple of cups of hot tea, a blueberry pancakes, or a sort of Bortolini blueberries, a slice of pink grapefruit then kiwi, kiwi there than they want.
Tonight we sleep well, in the quiet of almost surreal silence this huge now been with us for days, and therefore we are ready to get started on the road, State Road 98, north.
The road crosses the Navaho territory, including scenes of unprecedented scope and dazzling light. On our left, the Mormon Ridges, on the right before the Grey Mesa and then the Antelope Creek, which will take us up to Page, frequented harbor on Lake Powell.
Once on the beach, a small strip of sand bordered by a fence of wood and metal shacks, put off and we leave all our clothes, money and documents, including, in a bundle near the surf, then we hardly ever ' water of the lake. More
'Later we embark on the Canyon King, all patched up and a boat built of wooden boards whitened so reminiscent of the sun, with its big wheel with red enamel placed on the stern, the boats that ply the waters of the Mississippi.
No gambler, though, and even the blacks who play the blues.
Only white tourists and east, with their camera, and coca-cola, chewing gum and bags of chips in hand.
The old boat along the cliffs and clear, more 'above the red rocks looming, almost overhanging the water clear and blue that reflects nMode about right, upside down, of course, but that seems almost exactly the same or a suggestion mirage.
Stunned by this spectacle, we set off in approval of glances, struck dumb. Even because of the temperature. The vice of the heat is relentless, the oppressive heat of the afternoon. Having trouble even breathing. But the mood, anyway, is skyrocketing. These are just a few hours we left the jungle behind the sheet metal, asphalt and dust that is Los Angeles.
The hot, fuck you. So we will be even more 'north to the forests and national parks.
Soon we'll be in Yellowstone.
Will we see bears?
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